


Holmesless

by cloud_wolfbane



Series: Intertwined [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Afghanistan, Alternate Universe, Gen, Homelessness, M/M, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 05:39:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2055813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloud_wolfbane/pseuds/cloud_wolfbane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every one in the world is born with one half of a Soul Metal, the other half leading to their soulmate, but while living on the dangerous streets of London, the Holmes brothers have other issues to worry about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted in Intertwined, but it got away from me a bit and I think it deserves its own post.

**Holmesless**

Mycroft runs his fingers over the intricate swirls of his pocket watch. The metal is warm to the touch and somehow soothing. He clicks the top, the small button that on any other watch would have clicked the front open, but it stays shut as it has for as long as he’s lived. There is a keyhole on the back, and he has a key attached to the watch chain, but he knows from experience that the key does not fit the lock.

He’s distracted by the growling rumble of his stomach. He would think after months on the streets he would have grown used to the pains of hunger, but he finds he never quite does. He looks down at Sherlock, his younger brother tucked against his side that must be just as hungry. 

He runs his thumb over the warm metal once more, soul metal could be sold upwards in the thousands. A piece as large as his watch could set them up, could save them, and still he hesitates. 

“Don’t,” Sherlock mutters, holding his hand over the watch. 

Mycroft sighs, because of course Sherlock wasn’t sleeping and of course he completely ignores the taboo of touching another’s soul metal. “I could do a lot with that money, brother mine. If nothing else I could at least feed us.” 

Sherlock is barely twelve years old, but his eyes are wise beyond their years. He shakes his head, pushing the watch towards Mycroft. “Food is boring, don’t be an idiot.” 

“Yes, Sherlock,” Mycroft chuckles, tucking his watch on a chain around his neck. It settles close to his heart, a warm weight during the cold London night. “Go to sleep,” he sighs, shifting so his head is resting on their duffle, all their possessions in the world. 

***

The violin gives a sharp squeal, before falling into the dulcet tones of Swan Lake. Sherlock loathes Swan Lake, but it always attracts the most patrons. People wander by the park, making short-cuts to the tube. They don’t look twice at the grubby twelve-year old playing the violin, but most toss a quid or two into his open case. 

He plays for hours and hours because he can’t bare to see Mycroft look at his watch like that again. He gets lost in the music, he should have known better. 

“Hey, you again!” someone calls. 

Sherlock looks up to see Bruiser right in front of him. Bruiser is just shy of seventeen, and his recent puberty has left him with powerful muscles made lean and dangerous living on the streets. The boy had warned him off of the park after realizing how much money Sherlock could collect, even though the idiot couldn’t play an instrument if his life depended on it. 

Bruiser is fast, he reaches out and snatches the violin from Sherlock’s hands. He doesn’t try to hold on, doesn’t want to break the delicate neck of his instrument. 

“I told you to stay away from the park, Freak, ya shoulda listened,” Bruiser snears. He tweaks the strings, making the violin give a sharp cry in protest. 

Sherlock knows not to show fear, that it would only encourage the bully, but his violin was the last gift Mummy had given to him before the crash. Not only was it a reminder of a better life, but it was a source of income that Mycroft and he desperately needed. “You're right, I should have, why don’t you take my earnings,” Sherlock suggested, pointing at the open case. Mycroft always claimed he had no tack, but Sherlock knew how to employ diplomacy when absolutely necessary. 

Bruiser grins, squeezing the neck of the violin until the wood creaks. “Yeah, I’ll take your earnings, but I also think I’ll make sure you never make the mistake again.” 

He raises the violin over his head and Sherlock losses it. “No,” he screams, rushing forward to try and take the instrument back. Bruiser just snickers and kicks Sherlock in the chest. 

His heavy boot sends Sherlock flying. He lands hard on the ground, his heart pounding and chest burning, he may have bruised his ribs. Its too late now, and Sherlock refuses to watch his mummy’s gift get smashed to pieces. He turns his head away, squeezing his eyes closed and ignoring the burning behind his lids, but the sound of smashing wood doesn’t come. Instead, there is the dull thud of flesh hitting flesh. 

Sherlock whips around, only to see Bruiser now sprawled on the ground. There is another boy above him. He is smaller and younger than Bruiser, but older than Sherlock, probably around sixteen. Whatever his age, he has broken Bruiser’s nose. The older boy looks stunned, looking up with wide eyes. 

“Give me the violin,” the new boy says. His voice is calm, but something in the calmness sends a shiver down Sherlock’s spine, this is no regular bully. 

“Sorry, I didn’t know he was yours,” Bruiser wheezes, his voice gurgly from the blood pouring down his face. He hands over the instrument carefully. It will take a bit to retune it, but it looks undamaged. 

“Get out of here,” the new boy orders and Bruiser scrambles away, running from the park as if coppers are chasing him. 

Sherlock isn’t sure what he expects the other boy to do, but its not offer him his most prized possession back. 

“Here, that kid’s a bully, but he should leave you alone now,” the boy grins holding out the violin. 

Sherlock takes it back carefully, using the opportunity to get a better look at the boy. He has sandy blond hair, almost white from time spent in the sun. His skin is heavily tanned, hints of healing sunburn along his nose and the tips of his ears. He is dressed in an old jumper that clearly used to belong to an older man and a pair of old jeans that are torn at the bottom. Despite his dress, however, he has the healthy flush of a home kid. He’s not from the streets which bookers the question how he learned to punch like that, let alone why Bruiser seemed to not only know him, but was also terrified of him.

The answer is surprisingly simple, once Sherlock sees the careful way the boy holds his left arm, protecting his shoulder. Oh!

“Bagram or Kandahar?” Sherlock asks, placing his violin protectively behind him. 

The boy’s brow scrunches in confusion, “Kandahar, how did you…?”

“You’re heavily tanned, sunburned even, not something you would get in London, and your shoulder, you’re careful of a wound there. A gunshot wound from an assault rifle I’m guessing, there aren’t many places to get a wound like that. Not for a sixteen year old.”

The boy snorts, amused. He holds his hand out to help Sherlock up, his grin wide. “The name’s John, and that was bloody amazing.” 

“Really?” Sherlock asks, allowing himself to be pulling to his feet. 

“Yeah, extraordinary, I’d like to hear more, but I have to leave, sorry,” John sounds honestly apologetic and Sherlock his stunned by the strange boy. 

“Its okay,” Sherlock murmurs, watching him run off. He’s still thinking about the boy as he begins to carefully pack up his violin, in no mood to continue playing. 

He knows about the Afghanistan kids, it would be hard not to. Even without access to the telly, they’ve been in the newspapers for ages. Fifty years ago, Afghanistan was settled like a colony and military families from all over settled there to work the oil fields. They set up two bases in Bagram and Kandahar, but as oil became more scarce the locals rioted. The adults were slaughtered, but one of the older kids led a group of twenty kids into the desert. The military may have never known they had survived, but a distress beacon came in from a butchered radio and archaic morse code. 

Sherlock had been astonished to read the story, he had seen kids survive insane things on the streets of London, but nothing like the war torn deserts of Afghanistan. The boy that had brought the group out into the dunes managed to bring eighteen of them home, two getting captured during a food raid. 

The army had went in and saved the kids, all of them getting quickly adopted, the public moved by their story. Sherlock had known a few were in London, but he hadn’t expected to ever meet one. No wonder Bruiser had been terrified. 

Grinning, Sherlock heads down the London back alleys. He ducks into the empty houses of Leinster Gardens. It’s a risk jumping down to the tunnels, but its the easiest way to get into the tunnels without jumping the bars at one of the tube stations. He hits the ground and rolls, his violin case hitting him in the back of the head. 

“Umf,” he gasps, breath knocked out of him, but can’t linger, he is in the middle of an active train route. He dashes to the edges of the tracks, running along the line before he finds a maintenance tunnel to shoot down. 

He takes a moment to enjoy the warmth of the London underground. Winter is approaching and Sherlock can feel the damp and cold in his bones. His jeans had been nice when Mycroft and he had been orphaned and suddenly left on their own, but now they are threadbare and tearing at the edges. His jumper is a hideous green thing that’s much too big for him, but its warm. A lucky find from an old man clearing out his closet. His gloves are fingerless, a terrible cliche, but it’s the only way he can wear them and still play. 

He rubs his hands together, his fingers are freezing, the tips whiter than usual and ice cold. He grabs his own soul metal, on a sturdy chain about his neck. Its nothing as grand as Mycroft’s watch and key. His is a twisting silver band that fits easily around his left ring finger. He imagines his mate has a similar ring, twisting in the opposite direction so they might fit together. “Ridiculous,” he growls, hating his own sentimentality. He shoves the ring back into the safety of his clothes, and starts down the tunnels. He wants to talk to Wiggins. 

Wiggins lives in the tunnels, knows them better than even Sherlock. Most people call him “Rat,” but Sherlock tries to avoid using nicknames if he can help it. He finds Wiggins in his usual bolt hole, a small maintenance room that’s been abandoned for years. 

Wiggins could be the poster child for street urchins. He’s two years younger than Sherlock and almost a foot shorter. He’s just skin and bones, so malnourished that his eyes bulge unnaturally from the bruised contours of his face. 

“‘Lo Loki, playin’ fiddle in tha park again,” Wiggins waggles his fingers in greeting. 

“Its a living,” Sherlock shrugs while handing over a pound note. “I’m looking for some information.” 

“Oh, aren’t cha always,” Wiggin’s smiles, snatching up the note and secreting it somewhere in his filthy clothes. 

“I’m looking for one of the Hounds,” Sherlock says. They had called the kids Hounds because when the army picked them up in the desert they said they looked like a pack of wild dogs, starving vicious things that shied from anything that wasn’t pack. 

“ ‘s funny you’d mention Hounds, I only know one, rumour is he’s barkin down in Baskerville,” Wiggin’s says. 

Sherlock can’t hid his surprise. “Why would a Hound get mixed up in Baskerville? What could they want with Moriarty’s blood sport?”

Wiggins shrugs, unconcerned. “Heard he’s takin tha Reichenbach Fall. Jone’s seen ‘im, says he might even be The Hound.” 

“Hmm, thank you for the information,” Sherlock nods, taking his leave. His brain is too busy to bother with proper goodbyes. He doubt’s that John would be fighting in Baskerville, but the chance to meet The Hound, the boy that saved all those kids, well, how could he not?

***

Baskerville is the badly kept secret of the London Underground. The Cops know it exists, but can’t get anything to stick on Moriarty since he is rarely ever there. 

He started it up a few years ago, an abandoned station that was turned into an illegal fighting ring. The fighters range from starving street kids hoping to make a few pounds to professional fighters that can win a years wages in the ring. Businessmen from all over come to bet on the fights, and it would be a smorgasbord for pickpockets if Moriarty wouldn’t murder anyone that dared.

Sherlock had only been once and Mycroft had forbidden him from going back, but what his brother didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. He scurries up an old service ladder that takes him into the ceiling. Its easy to navigate the supports to take him just above the ring. Its a Reichenbach night, so the place is already packed. The sound is deafening, men yelling out bets and cheering, even though the fighters aren’t in the ring yet. 

The Reichenbach Fall was a challenge made by Moriarty a few years ago, open to anyone who dared. If a fighter could win twenty-five fights in a row then he would hand over half a million pounds, no strings attached. If the fighter lost, however, Moriarty was allowed to do with them as he wished. Since the challenge there have been five that have taken him up on the offer, all of them lost. Four of them are dead, the fifth now serves as Moriarty’s right hand man. 

The stats board on the far wall shows that the Hound is 20-0, the highest Sherlock has ever seen. His challenger is listed as the Dragon his rankings 50-5. One of Moriarty’s professionals then, someone rich enough not to risk the Fall. Only the desperate take the challenge, which is what makes the fights so interesting. 

Whoever the Hound is, he needs money quickly, the only question is, why?

Sherlock is still pondering the motive when the volume increases to a roar. The crowd is practically snarling when the fighters enter the ring. Sherlock looks down, and feels his breath knocked from him for the second time today. Its John!

The blond boy is shirtless now, revealing the the knot work of scar tissue on his shoulder. He would need a closer look at the wound to be sure, but it looks like John took care of the wound himself, cauterising what must have been a gaping hole with some sort of burning metal. He has different coloured bruises running along his ribs and arms, but there aren’t as many as Sherlock would expect for a boy that had won twenty fights in twenty days. 

The Dragon, is an older man, mid-twenties and with the sharp muscle definition that comes from adulthood. His hair is so black it must be dyed, and he has an elaborate dragon tattoo covering his torso and back. Though Sherlock suspects his moniker actually comes from the jade dragon pin tucked in his hair. His cut is so short that the pin looks ridiculous, clearly its the man’s soul metal. 

Sherlock can’t spot John’s soul metal, but the boy is probably smart enough to keep it safely tucked away. 

When the fight starts, it’s over so quickly Sherlock hardly has time to process it. 

At the sounding of the bell, John moves forward lightening fast. He jabs straight to the man’s face, then torso, before knocking him out with a bone shattering haymaker to the temple. 

The crowd goes silent in stunned awe, before the whole place goes up in a roaring cheer. There are barks and whistles and howls, the whole place sounding like a madhouse. 

Sherlock isn’t sure why he is surprised by the sudden viciousness of the attack. John seemed like a nice guy, but he is a Hound, and for whatever reason he needs the money he is clearly desperate, and desperate people don’t fight for show. John fights like his moniker suggests, quick and brutal, a beast on the hunt.

John clears from the room quickly, not bothering to mingle with any of the people that clearly want to meet with him. Sherlock tries to follow, but he gets caught up in the rafters. The boy is long gone by the time he can scramble down. Instead, he takes a few back tunnels, deciding to head to the meeting place Mycroft and he agreed on that morning. 

Mycroft’s arranged meeting place is an old apartment building, long since condemned. Sherlock shimmies in through a couple of loose boards over a broken window. The place smells of mold and mildew, but under that is the greasy scent of noodles. 

He finds Mycroft in one of the bedrooms were the carpet is least dirty. He’s spread out a tattered blanket to sit on and is leaning against the wall. There are two overflowing containers of chinese at his feet. 

“Good day?” Sherlock asks with a quirk of his brow. He sets his case down carefully and pulls one of the containers open. Its filled with rice, noodles, chicken, mushrooms, and beef and broccoli; like someone had emptied an entire chinese menu into the box. 

“I managed to convince the manager that one of his employees was stealing from the till every night. Once the man was confronted he quickly confessed. These were a gesture of gratitude,” Mycroft answers, offering up a fork. 

They sit together, eating quickly, but still taking the time to enjoy the hot meal. 

“I think I will search for another place in need tomorrow. The manager offered a free meal whenever I want, while its best not to abuse it, a collection of such offers may solve our food issue,” Mycroft comments when he is done. Once upon a time, he had been a chubby youth, but time on the streets had worn him away. His cheeks are sunken and his eyes dark, but now his stomach is slightly distended from the meal. 

Sherlock hums, feeling equally lethargic from gorging on the meal. “I’ll have to remember that trick,” he grins. Full and with the time to properly place the memory, he decides to go into his mind palace. 

The ‘palace’ as he calls it is less of a palace and more of a maze, but he enjoys the name better. The rooms had once mirrored the house he grew up in, but lately the hallways have grown dark and covered in stone. He carries his memories in the back alleys of London. 

His thoughts feel of cold and damp, the walls growl with rumbles of hunger. The throne room is shrouded in London fog and the throne is made of broken violin wires, bones, and scattered rubbish. Upon the throne no longer sits his father or mother or Mycroft, instead, floating above the seat is his soul metal, the only point of light in the room. 

It is an uncomfortable sentiment, so Sherlock pins the ‘free food’ idea to the wall and hurries down one of the many corridors. John already has a room. It’s small like an office, but already cluttered with information. The desk is made of compressed sand and bullet casings, the air is heavy with desert heat and it warms him to the bones. News articles he had read of the hounds have been moved from the archives to one wall. Another wall is filled with pictures of the boy and in the center is a close-up of the amazing scar on his shoulder. 

Sherlock looks around the room, making sure everything has been properly catalogued before leaving the palace. He comes back to himself sitting on the cold floor of the abandoned building. Mycroft is giving him a curious look, but is much too used to Sherlock’s episodes to be concerned. 

“Good day?” Mycroft asks, parroting Sherlock’s earlier inquiry. 

“Interesting,” Sherlock responds. 

Mycroft doesn’t pry, and together they get ready to sleep. Sherlock tosses the containers outside and checks the room for rats, while Mycroft pulls their second blanket from his pack and rolls an extra jumper up for a pillow. 

They curl up together, as has been their habit since their first night on the streets. Its strange to think just a month before the accident they hadn’t even been on speaking terms. 

Sherlock’s stomach is full and he is mostly warm, so he drops easily into to sleep, but his dreams are restless, filled with gunshots and desert heat. 

***

The next morning they go their separate ways. Sherlock wanders, mapping some of the less known regions of London. He stops on occasion to play and busk a few pounds, but he’s too jumpy to linger more than a few songs. 

He knows the next fight will be around 2200 and he is curious to see if John can continue his winning streak. He has no doubt that Moriarty will make John lose at some point. While the winnings would hardly be a drop in Moriarty’s bucket, the chance to have the Hound as his slave will be too much for the madman to resist. 

The idea of John being one of Moriarty’s cruel henchmen doesn’t sit right and he becomes so fidgety that he ends up practicing his pickpocketing skills. Mycroft will be furious, but its good practice. With his violin slung over his shoulder and shabby clothing, it’s impossible not to look homeless. This makes people wary when he steps too closely. He has more than once seen a businessman tuck his hand protectively over his wallet at the sight of him. Sherlock enjoys the challenge. 

The key is to look nonchalant and to have quick fingers. He keeps an eye out for the distracted. A man yelling into his cell doesn’t notice the quick grab of the wallet in his back pocket. A frazzled secretary doesn’t see his nimble fingers dipping into her open purse. 

Unfortunately, the young man in the grey suit does feel the removal of his wallet from his back pocket as Sherlock slips by in the crowd. The man spins and grabs his arm, the grip is tight, but not bruising. 

“Bugger,” Sherlock cusses as he looks the man over a little more thoroughly than his original cursory glance. “You’re a cop.” 

The man is in his mid-twenties, just a constable, but he is working along side a detective for a day which explains the rumpled suit. The fingertip callouses that Sherlock first thought of as a banker’s, were the result of filling out paperwork in an attempt to get on his boss’s good side. 

“Yeah kiddo,” the constable grins, “I am.” 

***

Greg Lestrade has been on the force since he was eighteen. He started unusually young, but Scotland Yard was so desperate for new recruits that they swept him up easily after seeing his A levels. 

He loves the force, despite all of the paperwork and the long hours directing traffic as he tries to work his way up the ranks. Today was his first day shadowing a detective, and of course moments after finishing his shift some wily street kid decides to pick his pocket. 

It was a smooth lift, he never would have noticed if he didn’t always pay more attention on this side of town. The kid is a surprise. He’s probably close to twelve, but barely looks ten. He’s skinny and his clothes could use a good washing, but he looks surprisingly healthy for a street kid. His eyes are fiercely intelligent, some blend of bluish-green he can’t name, and his hair is a riot of dark curls that could desperately use a cut and cleaning. 

The kid gives him hard look before saying in one of the poshest accents Greg’s ever heard, “You just finished your shift. You only slept an hour last night to work the early shift and are desperate to get home and sleep. Let me go. If you brought me to the closest station it would take hours to process me and even longer for my brother to come and collect me. Letting me go now seems to be in both of our best interests.” 

It is actually a good argument if it wasn’t so creepy. Greg is used to seeing kids of all ages on the streets. It breaks his heart, but the foster system has mostly collapsed. With the rising cost of living, very few people can afford to have extra mouths to feed. If this boy really does have a brother there is no doubt they would rather endure the streets than risk the foster system and the near certainty of being separated. Taking him to the station would only get his name put into the system before he was released, maybe even having to pay a fee that he clearly can’t afford. Still…

“Where is your brother then?” Greg asks. He’s not sure what he is planning just yet, but maybe he can offer a bit of help to this strange kid. 

The boy scowls, not pleased, “Little India most likely.” His answer is flat and given through gritted teeth. 

Greg wonders how this public school kid wound up living rough, he carries himself like he should be dressed in Savile Row best, not thrift store throwaways. “That’s hardly four blocks away. I’ll make you a deal. Introduce me to your brother, I’ll tell him what you’ve been up to, and we won’t have to get you processed at a station. How’s that sound kid?”

“I don’t know why you are insisting on this ridiculous farce when you are clearly exhausted, but fine. And please do refrain from calling me kid, my name is Sherlock.” 

Greg can tell by the way the kid’s, no Sherlock’s, eyes dart about that he is planning to run as soon as possible. “Well alright, Sherlock, lead the way,” he says, switching his grip so that they are basically holding hands, but Greg’s hand encases Sherlock’s in a fierce grip. 

Sherlock scowls, and in pure spite, leads Greg at a jog through the winding crowds of people. He takes obscure back roads on a maze-like route to Little India. The whole area has the faint whiff of curry and the tiny shops defy the dreary London weather in a riot of bright colors. 

Greg has always enjoyed this part of town, and often stops by on his way home to pick up some vindaloo at his favorite restaurant. 

Sherlock leads him unerringly to a small corner shop that smells like and entire spice market has been dumped atop it. He sticks his head through the door and shouts, “Mycroft,” before pulling back and making Greg stand at his side in front of the shop. 

The boy that comes out of the shop looks to be in his twenties, but Greg suspects that is a carefully maintained image. He is dressed in a clean black jumper and a pair of simple slacks. Its only because of Sherlock that Greg takes a closer look. The edges of the jumper are starting to unravel, and the trousers are heavily faded and about two sizes too big. His shoes resemble dress shoes only in the fact they are black, otherwise they are heavily scuffed and worn. All of these things are easily ignored, for the way the boy holds his head tall, posture stiff, and looks upon the world as if it is beneath him. 

He and Sherlock don’t really look much alike, but Greg has no doubt that they are brothers. “I think I have something of yours,” he says, holding up Sherlock’s arm. 

“Brother dear,” Mycroft sighs, looking his wayward sibling over for any damage. 

“I was just practicing,” Sherlock whines, tugging his fist sharply out of Greg’s hold. “I misread him,” he pouts. 

“Hmm,” Mycroft hums, turning his attention to Greg, “Thank you, officer. I promise it won’t happen again.” 

Greg scoffs, “I doubt it, this handful will probably be nicking pockets tomorrow, but booking him is a waste of time.” He wants to ask why they are on the streets, how two kids from a rich background and absolutely frightening intelligence wound up homeless. 

“Yes, well,” Mycroft mutters, at a loss. “Thank you.”

“Let me buy you a cuppa,” Greg blurts before his brain and mouth can have a good talk about impulses. 

Mycroft’s whole face shuts down. Where he had been cold before, he is now absolutely glacial. “I don’t appreciate charity,” he bites out. 

Greg flings his hands out, trying to look placating, “No, I, er, I just want to ask you two some questions, maybe you can help me with a case I’m working on.” 

Mycroft looks unconvinced, but Sherlock shoots forward with a manic grin. “Why didn’t you start there? What kind of case? Nothing dull I hope.” 

Whether influenced by his younger brother or not, Mycroft agrees and they head to a nearby cafe. Greg buys a Chai for both of them and a Mango Lassi for Sherlock. He also manages to get two baskets of Naan, under the guise of being hungry himself. 

“What is this case then?” Mycroft asks once they sit, looking doubtful. He sips at his tea, but completely ignores the bread. 

Greg starts talking about the first case that comes to mind. There is a new crime boss in the area thats been controlling some of the local gangs and has been running illegal gambling rings in the tunnels. They have been trying to gather intel from some of the local homeless, but no one is willing to talk. 

“I’m afraid I can not offer you any information on the matter,” Mycroft answers simply. His hand rubs across a lump under his jumper. Judging by the chain around his neck, Greg guesses the lump is the man’s soul metal and the gesture is a nervous one. He knows something. 

“Oh that is dull,” Sherlock sighs, “you’re just after Moriarty. Good luck with that one, the man is a spider.” 

The name makes Greg’s heart stop. He has of course heard it whispered before, but none of their contacts would ever mention it so flippantly. 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft hisses. 

Sherlock ignores him. “I don’t know how you haven’t found the gambling rings. All you have to do is follow all the blood thirsty men in suites wandering about the tube. They certainly stick out. The matches have been nightly for over a fortnight now, have you just been sleeping through them,” Sherlock drawls. 

“We’ve always been told the matches only happen on Friday,” Greg comments, just to see what he will say next. 

Sherlock huffs,” Of course, usually, but the Reichenbach Fall is twenty-five days straight, that’s the whole point.” 

“Sherlock!” Mycroft yells, clamping his hand around the younger boy’s arm and squeezing. 

“Ow,” Sherlock squeeks, looking up at his brother in surprise and hurt. 

“I’m sorry Officer, but we really must be going,” Mycroft growls, pulling his brother up.  
“Wait, please,” Lestrade struggles to pull his wallet from his pocket so he can hand them his card, his rush sends it and his soul metal to the floor with a clatter. “Shite,” he cusses reaching down to grab them both. 

“Oh,” Mycroft mutters, leaning down so his fingers hover over the soul metal. Greg knows his looks strange. Its such an old fashioned thing, a key and pocket watch with intricate designs that look like something off of an old episode of Doctor Who. 

Greg snatches it up quickly, while he doubts the man would ever try to steal it, desperate people do desperate things. But instead of moving after the watch, Mycroft pulls out his necklace. 

Keeping your soul metal on a chain about your neck is common practice, but Greg found his watch to be too heavy and clunky. The watch Mycroft pulls out, however, seems light and elegant. Its a gentleman’s watch, like one of those from an old victorian movie, and Greg doubts its his match, but still there is a key dangling from the chain and he feels his heart swell with the possibility.

They shuffle close, nearly touching so they can try the keys on the opposite watch. Greg takes the slim key with care, his hand shaking as he tries to slip the delicate thing into his watch. It slides into place with ease and when the watch clicks open for the first time Greg feels the whole store is filled with the tick-tocking of two watches starting as one.

***  
Four days later, Sherlock can’t decide if he likes Greg, or wants to poison his coffee. 

Greg had immediately invited them to stay at his flat, an offer Sherlock suspects Mycroft never would have taken if he didn’t have his little brother to think of. As it was, they wound up going to Greg’s flat. Its practically a shoebox, but it has a comfy couch, running water, and a roof that doesn’t leak. 

Greg and Mycroft circle around each other like high strung cats testing out their boundaries. Greg doesn’t seem to know what to do with a man that is nearly a decade younger than him, but about 75 IQ points smarter. Where as Mycroft seems confounded by human interaction in general. 

Sherlock would probably have been amused by the whole endeavour if either one of them would let him leave the house. After a year of being free to wander as he wishes, the sudden confinement grates at his nerves. He wants to see John, wants to know if he has won the last three fights. 

John is a mystery that he cannot leave unsolved. His history makes him interesting in an of itself, but his fighting in Baskerville makes him even more so. What does he need the money for? The unanswered puzzle grates even worse than his imprisonment.

Unfortunately, Mycroft is now aware of his wanderings into Moriarty’s domain, and Greg is gathering up a taskforce to take down Baskerville. Sherlock had told him, rather unintentionally, that Moriarty would have to be present for the twenty-fifth fight - if John made it that far. 

Now that the day has arrived, Sherlock has easily deduced that John made it. Greg is trying to be secretive, but he can tell that the mission is still a go. The only problem now is figuring out how to escape unnoticed. 

As 2100 rolls around, he gets his chance. Greg left earlier to get everything ready, and Mycroft is dead asleep - with a little assistance from some pills dissolved in his tea. 

He has to run to get to Baskerville, he knows he needs to warn John before the police arrive or he will be arrested for underground fighting. Once he gets there, the place is packed, it won’t be very hard for Greg’s team to find it. 

Luckily for him, he knows the area better than the idiots milling about. Its hardly any effort to slip through one of the hidden entrances and make his way to the locker rooms. It is on the way there that he hears Moriarty’s voice coming from one of the old offices. The light is on under the door, the warm light illuminating the tunnel.

Sherlock presses against the wall, careful not to block the path of the light.

“That little shite, I can’t believe he knocked our best fighters out so easily,” a rough voice snarls.

“Oh don’t be so sore Seb, I knew he would beat them. It is this fight I can’t let him win. It is more entertaining that way, don’t you think? The underdog snuffed out in the last match,” Moriarty giggles. Seb has to be Sebastian Moran, the fifth fighter that took the challenge.

“I can tell you I will enjoy beating him to a pulp,” Moran growls.

“I’ve always wondered if we could turn that fear gas into a shot, what do think Seb, how about we let him defeat himself?”

Sherlock can practically see the smirk when Sebastian responds, “Yeah, I like that idea.”

Sherlock stands quickly, sprinting from the door. He has to find John. He bolts for the locker rooms, which are really just two utility closets that got cleaned out for the fighters. He finds John in one of them, already dressed for the fight. 

He startles when Sherlock barges in, his fists up and ready to fight, but relaxes once he gets a look at him. “You’re the kid from the park,” he exclaims, surprised. 

“Er, yeah, Sherlock Holmes,” he introduces himself, only now realizing that John only saw him that one time. “Look I don’t really have time to explain, but your opponent tonight is Sebastian Moran, he is going to poison you. I’m not sure how yet, but you need to get out of here.” 

John stares at him in shock. “I can’t just leave, I only have one fight left.” 

“It would be unfortunate for you to forfeit when you’re so close,” the chilling voice of Moran says. 

Sherlock turns, springing back quickly to avoid the man who is now leaning against the door of the locker room. He has a syringe in his hand and is blocking the only exit. 

“You were going to cheat?” John growls. He pushes Sherlock behind him, trying to guard the younger boy. 

“Oh look at you, always the protector it seems,” Moran chuckles. He puts the syringe up on one of the lockers and takes a boxing stance. “I don’t think I need that to deal with you.” 

“You can’t, Moriarty will be furious if there’s no fight,” Sherlock pipes up, trying to get around John, but the older boy is using his whole body to keep him safely behind. 

“You’d be surprised what Moriarty finds acceptable to win,” Sebastian smirks before striking. He launches forward with a series of jabs to the face and chest. 

John can’t back up in the small room and can only take the blows. He protects his face with upraised arms. An opening lets him block a wide haymaker with his left before raining punches to Moran’s side. 

The older man curses and brings his knee up. The blow hits John in the groin, making him curl up in pain. “Little whelp, you should learn to respect your betters,” Moran snarls, bringing his knee up again to crunch against John’s nose. 

Sherlock has spent the fight carefully working around the edge of the room. He’s lucky he is tall for his age or he never would have been able to get the syringe off the locker. “Get off of him,” Sherlock yells, launching onto Sebastian’s back. He uses the momentum of the jump to lodge the needle into his neck. 

Moran howls, throwing his back into the wall to dislodge Sherlock. He drops down without a fight, the solution in the syringe already plunged into Moran’s system. 

“Come on, John,” Sherlock calls, grabbing the other boy’s hand and dragging him out of the room. 

John follows blindly, he is still slumped in pain and blood runs freely from his nose. 

Sherlock leads him down an access tunnel, wanting to get some distance from Moran. When he feels they are safe, he pauses and takes a look at John’s nose. “Its not broken.” 

“Thanks Doc,” John gurgles, giving a crooked grin. He looks insane with blood coating his teeth. 

“Yes well, I owed you one,” Sherlock shrugs. 

“Should tuck that in,” John comments, looking more serious. He reaches out and touches the chain dangling around Sherlock’s neck. 

He looks down, startled. The chain must have come loose in the fight, now his ring sits in the middle of his chest, looking small and harmless despite it’s importance. “Thanks,” he murmurs, and tucks it back in his shirt. “You should go, the police will be here soon.” 

“Christ, really? Today is not my day,” John tsks, looking down the tunnel. He looks conflicted, glancing towards the roar of the crowd and Sherlock. 

“You can’t go that way. I wasn’t kidding, the police are coming and Moran might be down, but Moriarty and the rest of his goons will be looking for you,” Sherlock is practically pleading with the boy, which is ridiculous, he doesn’t plead. 

“I know, I believe you,” John says, offering Sherlock a sad smile, “but I have some things that I need to finish first. Get out of here, and stay safe, yeah.” 

“It’s dangerous,” Sherlock yells at the idiot boy as he runs down the tunnel towards Baskerville. 

John takes a second to look back at him, his eyes are sad, but his grin is manic and still slick with blood. “I know,” he calls, and then he’s gone.

Sherlock cusses up a storm, kicking up rocks in his frustration. “That moron!” he snarls. He should go after him and shake some sense into him, but he did his job, he repaid his debt. Its not his fault if the idiot doesn’t listen. He contemplates going after him, maybe helping him out with whatever madness the boy is getting involved in, but decides against it. 

He runs down the tunnel away from Baskerville, the whole way his chest hurts a bit and he wants to turn back. He ignores the feeling and keeps going. 

****

The next day, Greg is in such a good mood he takes them out for lunch, he and Mycroft fight the whole time about the money. Only when Greg announces that the successful raid got him promoted to Detective does Mycroft conceed. 

Sherlock hardly eats, he managed to break into Greg’s computer to look at the arrests, but not everyone was processed yet. He tells himself to stop worrying and for a time it works. 

For a week he plays the violin and does small experiments in Greg’s kitchen. He watches as Greg and Mycroft continue to dance around each other, until Mycroft manages to secure a very minor government job. 

Sherlock still isn’t certain how Mycroft managed to secure a job that usually requires at least a bachelor's when the man still hasn’t graduated secondary school, but if anyone could do it, Mycroft could. The new job and paycheck seems to settle some of the unease between the bonded. They still dance around each other, but now they seem to dance a little closer. 

Sherlock may have forgotten the incident with John entirely, he had already started to clean out the office he made for the boy in his mind palace. However, after a week, a large envelope is left at Greg’s doorstep with Sherlock’s name on it. 

“What’s this then?” Greg asks when he comes through the door, holding up the envelope. 

It doesn’t have a return address or any stamps - hand delivered then. “Let me see,” Sherlock snatches it up, curious to explore the new mystery. Who even knew he lived here? 

The handwriting is cramped and hesitant, somebody trying to write neatly, but unused to it. 

“Careful there Sherlock, do you know who that’s from?” Greg asks, looking nervously over his shoulder. 

“Its not malicious,” Sherlock huffs, he doesn’t know how the man ever got into police work. He never looks. Sherlock tugs the letter open and flips its contents onto the counter. Out pours a single sheet of paper and a sturdy chain. 

He looks at the letter first. 

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I cannot apologize enough for what I am about to do, but by the time you get this I will no longer be in the country. I had to return to Afghanistan. Chances are we will never see each other again, but I left my sister alone in Afghanistan once, I could not abandon her a second time. I was lucky I had just enough earnings from different bets to get a flight out, I was trying for the winnings to better fund my expedition, but this wouldn’t be the first time I entered into a warzone blind._

_Anyways, I’m sorry. I had Wiggins deliver this, because I knew he wouldn’t steal it. In this envelope is something very dear to my heart, I hope you’ll protect it because I’m clearly too stupid to look after it myself._

_Sincerely,  
John Watson_

Sherlock takes the chain with shaking hands. He gulps as it unravels, revealing a small golden ring, its band twisting in a pattern so familiar, Sherlock would know it in his dreams. He unhooks the clasp on his own chain and pulls both rings free. 

Fingers still shaking, he presses the rings together. Bands of silver and gold slide easily into place and with a soft click merge.


	2. Chapter 2

The first time John saw Sherlock, he was just a little kid busking in the park. Of course, John had always seen men playing old guitars and knocking out a beat on some buckets, but he had never seen a kid playing Vivaldi on the violin. 

He drops 10 quid he really can’t afford into the case and moves on. Something about the kid’s scrapped jeans and thin face tugs at his heart strings. John always had a protective streak when it came to younger kids, but he had long ago learned that he can’t save everyone.

It’s about a week later that he sees him again, but this time he’s flat on his back while that bully Bruiser tries to smash his violin. John would have interfered no matter what, but he thinks he moved a little faster at seeing the look of abject loss that the boy tried to hide, certain his violin wouldn’t survive the encounter. 

He doesn’t learn the boy’s name that time either, but he does learn that he is even more extraordinarily intelligent than he first thought. The boy reads out his whole life story with a glance that leaves John feeling stripped. He wished he had more time to talk, but he couldn’t miss his next fight. 

It’s another week before he sees him again, and this time John learns more than just his name. He’s getting dressed for his last match, a process that really only consists of him removing his shirt and tucking his ring into a small zipper pocket in his shorts. 

Sherlock bursts in, hair and eyes wild as he introduces himself and gives a burst of information about Moriarty and cheating. John, of course, believes him immediately, which would have been more strange if Sebastian hadn’t walked in and proved it all true. 

Afterwards, John had only been trying to be helpful when he pointed out the soul metal dangling about Sherlock’s neck. It was a complete shock to realized the small silver band was a match to his own. He wanted desperately to reveal his band, but he had made a promise to his sister. He can’t afford a bondmate, not now. 

He said nothing and ran from Sherlock, his heart hurting with every step. He lucked out by collecting his share of the bets his friend had placed for him before disappearing. He avoided the police and got the tickets he would need to get himself back to the place he had once called home. 

It had been a risk to send the ring through Wiggins, there was a likely chance that they weren’t actually bondmates, but John knew he was right, knew Sherlock would take care of it for him. 

Sitting in the plane bound for Afghanistan he feels the click of a merged bond, a warmth filling his chest. “Be safe Sherlock,” he whispers clenching at his shirt, “for both of us.” 

****

Sand clogs his nose and mouth, drowning him. He hacks trying to draw more air than dust into his lungs. 

“Here mate,” one of the silhouettes in front of him hands back a filthy bandana. 

John takes it gratefully, wrapping the cloth around his nose and mouth. It blocks most of the whirring sand and allows precious air to enter his lungs. 

They move quickly through the mountains, the men in front at a swift jog, despite the horrible conditions. John follows after them, he has little choice. He knows it would take him much too long to find his own way out of the mountains without aid. 

The path is narrow and filled with jagged rocks. John trips and stumbles, unable to see much of anything. Instead he focuses on the shadow before him and tries to think of nothing. 

It takes hours for the head runner to veer off into a proper cavern. They break off to prepare the temporary base, the soldiers move with a sort of silent grace. Blocking off the entrance and checking the area for traps. 

John watches them, unsure what to do and not capable of doing more than pant. 

“Can’t believe you’re still with us kiddo,” the lead runner chuckles, clapping him on the back. He’s an American soldier, but he doesn’t look it. The man is dressed in civilian clothes and has a scraggly beard. Time in the sun has given him a darker complexion making him almost look native. 

“He just trucked right along, you’d think he was one of us,” the man that had given him the bandana pipped up. 

“Barely, we must have run for miles,” John sighs pulling off the cloth around his mouth. 

“Sixteen in full ruck,” the leader grins, “Come on over kid and grab some grub.” 

John sets his pack down and joins the soldiers. They are sitting around a small electric lamp, like the world’s most pathetic campfire. The group is as scruffy as their leader, all dressed in regular clothes, but with rifles and handguns hidden away. John had accidently run into them while struggling to find his way through the mountains. 

The group is American Special Forces, running some secret mission to re-secure the oil fields. Honestly, they should have left him behind, and promised that they would if he didn’t keep up, but John had been born and raised in Afghanistan. He may not know his way through the mountains, but he knows how to survive.

“So I didn’t properly introduce myself, I’m Sergeant First Class Donnelly, but you can just call me Don,” the leader grins holding out his hand. 

John shakes it, while the others make their introductions. 

“I’m Bill Murray, like the actor, but funnier,” the bandana man says. 

“Bauza,” the one with the sniper rifle grunts. 

“Just Z for me,” the youngest says, and it must be an inside joke because the others jostle and tease him. 

They all pull out these green bags and add a bit of water to them. The small white packet inside the bag sizzles and begins to smoke before they shove in a brownish bag and roll it closed. “MRE’s,” Don answers John’s questioning look, which doesn’t really answer anything. “So tell us your story, we didn’t have time to chat before the damn duster was on us.” 

John brushes some of the sand away, a nervous habit. “I’m looking for my little sister, she should be near the Kandahar province.” 

Murray scrunches his brow. “I thought they got all the kids out about six months ago? Put together some massive rescue mission when they received a distress signal.” 

“I heard that shit, crazy man. Some kiddo rigged an old radio and bounced morse code on all the lines til someone heard him,” Z said. 

They all nodded, looking rather impressed by the story. 

John scuffed his boot, feeling a blush build in his cheeks. “Yeah, that was me,” he licks his lips, “but my sister got caught during a food raid, I never should have let her go. Never should have let them put me on the helicopter, but I had to make sure the other kids were okay.” 

“Christ, really!?” Don huffs in surprise. 

“You’re The Hound, well fuck me, that was some brave shit,” Z whistles.

“Kiddo, you know its been a long time, your sister probably isn’t er… okay,” Murray scratches his beard, looking away. 

“I know,” John mutters, “but I have to try, and ahh my name is John, by the way. If you could stop calling me that.” 

Don nods, clapping him hard on the back again. “You do what you have to do John. We’re heading to Kandahar ourselves, and I doubt any of my men would mind you coming along. You kept eighteen kids alive in the desert for months, we’d be glad to call you a camrade.” 

“Damn straight,” Murray grins, and the rest give a cheer, clapping John on the shoulder and back until he nearly falls over. 

Don pulls the brown bag out of the green one and rips the top off. “Here you go,” he says, handing it and a spoon to John, “Eat it hot, it only gets worse cold.” 

John looks in the bag, but in the shadows it just looks like something in gravy all mushed together, it doesn’t really smell like anything. He takes a bite and its half hot half cold and he thinks it might be a pasta of some sort. The others are diving into their food, scarfing it down in huge gulps. John follows their example, if he eats fast enough he doesn’t have to taste it. 

Z shares a small bag of toffee biscuits in another brownish bag. They taste like dry rocks with a hint of sugar. John eats five. 

Though its been in the nineties all day, night falls swift and freezing. They curl up together like dogs sharing warmth with two camo ponchos as blankets. They let John into their pile and it feels oddly like family. 

The next day, Bauza pulls him aside, the man is huge, a mass of muscles and scars. He barely ever speaks and he honestly petrifies John, but he has surprisingly gentle eyes. “Here,” he says handing over a M9 handgun. 

John holds it carefully, pointing the barrel towards the ground. Its massive in his hands and feels strange. Its just warm metal, no different than holding a phone, but it feels deadly, powerful. 

“I’ll show you how to shoot it when we reach the valley. Here,” he clicks the button on the side. “Safety,” he clicks it again, “fire. Got it?”

John nods and clicks the safety back on. “Thank you.” 

The man shakes his head and walks off. 

Before they leave, Don donates a holster for the gun and shows him how to attach it and conceal the weapon. Z donates a canteen of clean water. Murray gives him a hat and a stretchy brown thing that actually goes around his neck and tucks over his mouth and nose better than the bandana from before. 

The dust has settled, coating everything in a sheen of brown. They set off at a steady pace down the mountains, not running - thank God - but moving quick enough that John struggles in the back. 

The sun is high and horrible by midday when they reach the valley floor. Its dry, a barren wasteland of rocks and shrubs. After a check of the area, Bauza sets up three small rocks on larger ones and teaches John how to shoot.”

“You can’t use more than five rounds to knock them off. We can’t waste bullets,” Bauza says bluntly before walking John through the steps. He makes him practice holding the weapon and switching the safety off and on. They practice breathing and visualizing the shot. He practices taking aim again and again. 

When John fires his first weapon it feels completely natural. His breathing is calm and even, his wrist is strong, taking the surprising brunt of the backlash. Of course, he misses completely, but he calmly takes aim, steadies his grip, breathes, and shoots. The second shot hits true and so does the third and fourth. He doesn’t have to fire the fifth. 

“Hmm,” Bauza hums, and wanders off to collect his pack. 

“That’s Bauza speak for good job,” Murray chuckles, handing John his pack. “We gotta hit the road now though, those would have attracted attention.”

They gather up and set off again, and the next few days, while tiring, are blissfully safe. It doesn’t last. 

****  
It’s something the soldiers call a daisy chain, a string of explosives set along the road. They keep close eyes on the edges of the road for the well hidden explosives, but the natural filth of the roadside makes for easy concealment. 

Don leds the group, as he always does, with Z and Murray five meters back in a triangle formation. Bauza and John bring up the rear, keeping a weathered eye on the road behind them. 

Don holds up his fist, causing the group to halt as he scouts the surrounding area. Something has caught his attention. Whatever it is, he shakes it off and they continue down the filthy path. 

John can see the oil fields of Kandahar shimmering far in the distance, and is thinking how close they are. That’s when the chain ignites. It starts with Don, a burst at his side that throws him off his feet. 

The chain continues to Murray who tries to leap out of the way. Bauza, quick despite his size, bodily lifts John and tosses him out of harm’s way. Unfortunately, the chain is more than just an explosive charge, the air thickens with gas, clogging their lungs and forcing sedatives through their bloodstream. 

John can only watch as Bauza struggles to his knees. He pulls out his rifle and lays suppressive fire down the path they were traveling. There are shadows in the fog, followed by the sharp bursts of gunfire. Then everything goes black. 

****

John wakes to shouting. His head is pounding horribly and all he can hear is the flow of Dari. It’s usually a melodic language, but the people shouting are delivering the words with harsh vowels and rough growls. 

He shakes his head trying to catch what they are saying. He used to be fluent in Dari, but it’s been some time since he was just child, playing stick ball with his local friends. 

_“Where are the others? Where are the others?”_

_“My name is Sergeant First Class Donnelly, we are here on a peacekeeping mission.”_

The shouting goes back and forth the same phrases constantly repeating until the unknown man hits Don’s temple with the butt of his rifle just to get him to shut up. 

John tries to hold back a groan as he shifts on the dirty floor. When his eyes finally focus, he finds himself chained to an old pipe sticking out of the floor in a U-shape. They are in a old building, the floor mostly dirt and rubble surrounded by four concrete walls decorated with old blood and mold. 

Bauza is chained up next to him, but is still unconscious. The man has been shot in the upper arm and someone bothered to wrap a filthy cloth around the wound, but blood is still seeping sluggishly down his arm. It drips to the dirt in a steady plop, and John must still be drugged, because he spends minutes watching the hypnotic fall. 

Z is off to the right and seems fine, if only absolutely covered in dirt. Murray is leaned up against his side and he doesn’t sound right. His breath rattles as he continues to sleep off the drug. 

Don doesn’t look good. He’s on his own to John’s left. His arms are pinned uncomfortably above his head, but he can still sit. Which is fortunate because his right leg is gone. The blast had hit him first and the shrapnel had taken out everything beneath the knee. Now his trouser leg is a bloody mess, though someone had tied one of the army-issue, black tourniquets around the knee and wrapped everything up with cloth that looks suspiciously like torn t-shirts. 

“Don,” John gasps, not sure what to say. 

It’s not his first time seeing someone with a lost limb. By the time the kids had been rescued from the desert, two had lost limbs to the bombs littering the roadsides, but it never makes it easier. 

“Hey Pup, you okay?” Z asks, from his side. Don is to out of it to respond. 

“Fine, but what do they want?” John asks, shifting so he can face Z. “Bauza got shot in the arm,” he adds. 

“Old man Bauza, will be fine. My Dari is shit though, I have no idea what Sarge and that asshole were screaming about,” Z half shrugs, careful of Murray. 

“He was asking where the others are, but there aren’t any...right?”John asks. 

“Shit if I know, shouldn’t be though,” Z pauses, “Wait, you speak Dari?”

“A bit,” John says, “I grew up here remember.” 

“Well that will be hella useful. Bauza speaks Pashto and Murray is passable at Dari, but I got assigned Spanish and still only learned that by the skin of my teeth,” Z grins. He opens his mouth to say something else, but there is the scuffle of feet down the hall. They both shut up, straining to listen. 

A girl shuffles in with a tray. Her head is covered in an old hijab and her face is covered in dirt, but John would recognize those stubborn blue eyes anywhere. 

“Harry!” he shouts. 

“Oh my god, John!” she gasps, nearly dropping her tray. She runs over, plops the tray on the ground, and crushes him in a hug. “You came back,” she chokes, her voice somewhere between desperate and scolding. 

“Course I did,” John sighs, leaning into her hold. His sister is alive! When she moves back a bit he can tell she has lost some weight. Her cheeks are sunken and her eyes are dark with lack of sleep, but she looks relatively okay. “What happened?”

She stays close, keeping her voice down. “They caught me and Josh, he...uh… he didn’t make it, but,” she sniffles, “they kept me alive as a sort of servant. I get food and drink and clean some the houses around here. I’ve been trying to run, but I wouldn’t even know where to go.” 

“Where are we?” John asks. He feels a sharp twinge for Josh, but it is overrun by Harry being alive and well. 

“The edges of Kandahar, just east of the oil fields,” Harry tells him. 

“This is fucking amazing, your family must have the best luck on the damn planet, or the worst I suppose,” Z chuckles. 

“Oh, right,” Harry murmurs, realizing they aren’t alone. 

She picks up on of the cups of water on the tray and offers it to Z. “Just drink slowly, I’ll help you,” she says, holding the cup to his lips. She moves with skill, clearly having done this before. She rouses Murray enough to get him to drink and does the same for Bauza. 

“Retie his bandage please, its still bleeding,” John tells her, and watches his sister carefully redo the mess that had been there before. She takes her time with Don, checking his wounds and the massive bump developing on his temple. “Poor guy,” she murmurs and uses some of the water to clean his face and sooth the headwound. 

John is just dirty and suffering from a headache, the cool water from the cup is soothing and helps the scratchy sourness of his throat. 

“I have to go,” she whispers to him. “but in two days they are having a festival of some sort and these guys drink like sailors, I’ll try to grab the keys.” 

“Harry,” he stops her with his voice, wishing he could reach out and hug her. “Thank you, and please be careful.” 

“Aren’t I always?” she shoots him wink before disappearing down the hall. 

“She’s a good girl, strong,” Bauza comments. 

John almost jumps out of his skin, “You’re awake,” he states rather stupidly. 

Bauza grunts, hefting himself up with his uninjured arm. “Check Murray, we need everyone conscious to form a plan.” 

Z nods, managing to wake Murray with a series of shoulder shrugs and wiggling that look like the world’s worst attempt at yoga. 

“Meh,” Murray grunts, shaking his head. 

“Get up,” Z growls.

“ ‘m up,” he snuffles, blinking one eye then the other as he tries to grab onto consciousness. “Feels like I swallowed a hive of bees,” Murray grumbles, shuffling into a sitting position. He leans forward, stretching his arms out behind him until they gave a crack. “Hmm, much better.” 

“We have two days until we can make a move, we’ll have to know how Donnelly is doing then,” Bauza starts, tilting his head towards the sergeant. 

“That wrap looks well done, but he must have lost loads of blood, it ain’t gonna be good,” Z comments, straining to get a better look. 

John stays silent, listening to the soldiers go back and forth with plans, but really everything depends on Harry. 

***

The next day they take Murray away for a few hours and when he comes back, he’s a bruised mess and his breathing sounds even worse. 

When they take Z, he looks nervous, but still strides out of the room with all the grace one can with their hands chained behind their back. He returns with a broken nose and a limp, but gives them a bloody grin when he’s chained beside Murray again. 

They seem nervous around Bauza, and five men come to take him. He is returned in less than ten minutes with a massive goose egg on his brow and three of the five men look worse than he does. 

Don is not taken. He has spent the time trailing in and out of consciousness and makes little sense when he can speak. John is getting more worried about him. 

Harry manages to come back twice to give them water and a few bites of stale bread. She checks over their injuries, paying careful attention to Don. She spends each time barely whispering, her gaze darting frightfully towards the hall. 

John can feel the tension of the situation building in his chest. He wants his arms free and he wants desperately to get off the ground, but he doesn’t want to be taken away and beaten for answers like the others. It selfish, but true and the fear keeps him awake at night, when he should be grabbing a few hours of sleep like the others. 

When the time to escape comes, Harry is late. 

They all strain anxiously against their binds. Even Don is awake, looking down the hall as best he can. 

When Harry comes in, she is running. “We don’t have much time,” she pants, crouching by John. She unlocks him and Bauza before darting over to Z and Murray. Last, she slips the cuffs off Don. 

They all creak and crack when they stand, bruises ache and joints complaining. Bauza quickly goes to Don, hefting him up into his arms and supporting his missing leg. 

Don grunts, “Bauza, this is ridiculous, put me down. You are going to have to leave me here.”

“Don’t be stupid, never leave a fallen comrade, ain’t that right, Sarge?” Z snarls. 

“Let me take him, I can hold his weight well enough and you need to be able to shoot,” John suggests, siding up to him. 

Bauza and Don give him assessing looks, before Bauza shifts the sergeant over. Its a bit of a struggle, Don being taller than John, but finally they settle into a comfortable stance. 

“Let’s go,” Harry hisses, eyes darting about. 

“Yeah, let’s,” Murray grins. 

Bauza takes lead, with Z and Murray not far behind. Harry is just behind them with John following as closely as he can with Don hopping at his shoulder. 

The noise of the festival reaches them as they reach the building’s exit. There is loud music and the sounds of dancing. It’s sheer luck that they run across a batch of AK-47s that was left behind. There are enough that John is given one. He slips the strap over his head so it can hang by his side. 

Time is of the essence, but they have to stop at an old jeep. It has an ancient radio the size and weight of a brick in the consol. It takes Z only a moment to hotwire the car and start fiddling with the radio. He doesn’t explain his actions, but John recognizes the morse code. He’s calling for help. 

They pile into the jeep and try to take off quietly, but the old thing was never meant for stealth. The sound of the engine attracts the attention of the festival goers. There is a shout of Dari and then gunfire. 

Z peels out into the road like a racecar driver. The wheels squeal in protest, but they are lucky to go from gravel to pavement in a few short meters. It is dark, even with the flickering festival lights, but John recognizes where they are. They are just on the outskirts of Kandahar. Despite the hell this place has brought him, for a moment, it reminds him of home. 

“There are American soldiers on the west side, we just have to get there,” Z yells, shifting the vehicle. 

“Stay down,” Bauza commands them, pushing John and Harry down so they are almost in the floor. He shifts over them, supporting his arm on the back seat so he can take aim at the oncoming cars. 

There is a burst of gunfire, Bauza ducks, straightens, and fires his own burst. “Piece of crap,” he growls, glaring down the road. 

“Not up to your usual standards, eh?” Murray grins, flopping over the seats so he can aim alongside. He shoots a burst of rounds down the road. “Oh that is crap,” he growls. 

John watches them with wide eyes. They seem so cavalier. Z is zipping down the road at full tilt, while Bauza and Murray bitch about their stolen guns. It’s so outrageous, he bursts out laughing. 

“That a boy,” Don gives him a tired grin from his spot in the passenger seat. 

“We’re almost there,” Z cheers, taking the jeep so sharply around a corner it goes up on two wheels. 

Harry is gripping John’s arm so tight it hurts, but he can see the excitement in her wide eyes. He’s actually going to make it, a few more meters and a flight home and he’ll actually be able to return to Sherlock, the thought fills him with warmth. He rubs his thumb over his ring finger where his newly bonded ring should be. So close. 

Of course, John was never that lucky. 

Bauza and Murray lay down suppressive fire with the full strength of their automatic rifles, but they can’t stop the force of a R.P.G. 

The rocket hit with the force of a … well a rocket. 

The entire jeep leaps up, flipping over and over as fire roared all around. John screams, not sure if he’s screaming for Harry or God or if he is just screaming. Everything hurts, pain bursts from his legs up.

The jeep is still tumbling when everything goes black. 

****

John flashes in and out of consciousness, but he can tell something is holding him under. There is the whoosh whoosh of a helicopter, a sound of safety he would recognize anywhere. He can hear Harry yelling for him. But mostly there is darkness and pain. 

“John, John I need you to focus,” a voice pulls him from the fog. 

He tries to run from it, to burrow into the darkness of his mind, but it’s useless. He opens his eyes to light that is too bright, sharp pinpricks dig into his eyes. He groans, turning his head to try and hide from the light. 

“John,” the voice calls again, and this time he can tell it’s Don. 

He tries to call out to him, but his voice only comes out as a wheeze. 

“Shh, don’t try and speak,” Don kneels at his side, leaning over so he is in John’s line of sight. “We are going to fix your leg, it _will_ hurt, but everything will be okay John, I promise.” 

Don places his hand on John’s brow, its dry and calloused and reminds John of his dad. For a moment he remembers home and happiness, but then he feels the injection in his left thigh. 

He thought he knew pain before, but it was nothing like the injection. It burns brighter than any fire and its tearing him out from the inside, scrapping him open and leaving him hollow. 

He can feel pressure on his shoulders and sides, there are strong hands holding him down and he fights as hard as he can. He flails against the restraints until there is a pinch in his arm. The darkness returns. 

***

When John’s medication is reduced enough that he can actually wake up and remember the experience, a month has passed. 

He has to heave himself into a sitting position, his muscles are weak and wobbly with disuse. He rubs the crust of sleep from his eyes, taking in the obnoxious beeping of the surrounding machines and the harsh scent of antiseptic. 

The pain that had seemed endless is mostly gone, now there is just a vague ache in his left leg. He pulls back the hospital covers and itches at his calf. Something doesn’t feel right. He’s in one of those thin hospital gowns, which makes it easy to pull it up to look at his leg. What he sees takes his breath away. 

“Oh, no,” he whispers, covering his mouth with a shaking hand. 

“Johnny?” Harry calls from the door. She looks so small leaning against the threshold. The grime from before has been washed away and she is now dressed in a pair of baggy jeans and a t-shirt. 

“H… Har… Harry,” John wheezes, his throat is so dry. 

“Johnny,” she cries, running to his side. She tosses her arms around his neck, hugging him with all her strength. She pulls back as soon as he gives a pained grunt. “Sorry, you must still be sore,” she winces. 

“Harry, what did they do to me?” John swallows back tears as he points to his leg. His left knee looks fine, but beneath that is a network of silver metal merged with skin. It looks like something from a sci-fi show. 

“Oh, John,” Harry sniffles. “It was when the jeep flipped. Your leg was crushed, there was so much blood they had to...had to,” she shakes her head. “It was the Sergeant that suggested this,” she gestures to his leg, “he said he owed you one.” 

“But what is it?” John asks running his hand over the metal shin, he is startled to feel the touch. 

Harry furrows her brow, “They call it nanite technology.” 

John snatches his hand back like its been burned. He doesn’t want to touch it, he wants to rip the metal from his skin, pry it apart. “Its soul metal,” he gasps, and he can hear his heart beat upsetting the monitor. “It’s melted soul metal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a third part promise. 
> 
> When I was younger I remember being told to write what I know, which I had always scoffed at because I like to write fiction, but I admit I do enjoy writing about soldiers now that I know more about them. There is a sort of language that develops between comrades that is like nothing else.


	3. Chapter 3

Holmesless (Part 3)

**  
_Six Years Later…_   
**

“Why is it so hot!” Sherlock whined throwing himself dramatically onto the sofa. 

“It’s July, genius,” Greg says, swatting him playfully on the shoulder. 

“It is not this hot in London,” Sherlock scowls, shooting him an affronted look at the swat.

Greg rolls his eyes, heading over to the mini fridge for a cold water, it has been rather hot. “There is a big difference between London in July and Florida in July.” 

“Yes, one is hell!” Sherlock gripes, rolling off the couch so he can sprawl more dramatically on the floor. 

“Come on, you said you wanted to come,” Greg tells him, a phrase he has been repeating for three days now. 

Sherlock’s voice is muffled into the carpet, but Greg has long been an expert at Sherlock translation. “I thought it would be less boring than London.”

“Sherlock,” Greg sighs. He sinks down to sit beside his sprawled form. “Is this about University?” he asks, ruffling the teen’s wild curls. 

Sherlock swats him away. “No, I told you I’m going to study chemistry and forensic science.” 

“No one is making you go, you could start on the force. You know I’d put in a good word for you, you’d be brilliant,” Greg says. They’ve been having this conversation since Sherlock graduated a few months ago.

“I’d hate the force, morons the lot of them,” Sherlock says, sitting up so he can properly cross his arms over his chest. 

“Oy!”

“Present company excluded of course,” Sherlock says. 

“My, that was nearly pleasant,” Mycroft comments. He’s leaning against the doorframe, his suit jacket and tie have been removed and he’s undone the top two buttons of his shirt. Apparently, the heat isn’t just getting to Sherlock. 

“Mycroft,” Lestrade grins, standing up and pressing a kiss to his husband’s lips. “How’d it go?”

“The conference is interesting to say the least. The debate for and against Nanite Technology is still in full fire. It is still legal to sell it, but the shops can’t prove if the metal is stolen or given under duress. Though there have been leaps in producing nanites from dead soul metal. Producing it synthetically, however, is still far in the future,” Mycroft explains while he grabs his own bottle of water and takes a seat on the sofa. 

“I still don’t see how a country like America hasn’t banned it yet,” Sherlock comments. 

“The oil fields have been lost, beside offering amazing healing properties, the technology does offer an alternative fuel source,” Mycroft answers, rubbing at his brow where a headache has been building all day. 

Sherlock stays silent on the matter, he knows his brother is as conflicted as he is on the matter. Britain needs new fuel sources, but they both know that the soul metal needed to produce the nanites will come from the homeless, from the desperate. He runs his fingers over his chest, where his bonded rings sit beneath his shirt. “I’m going for a walk,” he says, standing swiftly and marching to the door of their hotel room. 

“Try to stay outta trouble, yeah,” Greg calls to him as he takes his place on the sofa beside Mycroft. 

Sherlock shoots them a wink and slips out the door. 

****

“Look at you in your fancy doctor’s coat,” Harry teases the moment John steps into the kitchen. 

“It’s a lab day,” he blushes, brushing imaginary lint from his freshly ironed coat. 

“Well I think you look handsome,” Clara smiles, handing him a cup of coffee. 

“Ta,” John sits at the table. “Wait, shouldn’t you two be in school?” John furrows his brow, looking between his sister and her bondmate. 

“Free period, we have to leave in a bit,” Harry waves him off. 

John sighs, but leaves them be. Six years ago, he and Harry had been rescued out of Afghanistan with a group of soldiers. While John had been trying to stay alive in the ICU Harry had had the good fortune of running into her bondmate. They now wear their bonded wing pendants for the world to see that they are complete. 

“Hey you lazy bums, are we going to get this day started any time soon?” Murray asks, poking his head into the kitchen. 

John looks at his watch and then jolts out of his chair. “Ahh crap, we’re running late.” 

“You are,” Murray grins, tossing him the car keys. “Come on, you can drive.” 

“See you later, John, Bill,” Harry waves them off. 

“See you, girls,” Bill grins, guiding John out. 

They hurry down the apartment steps and out to the parking lot. “God, this heat is murder,” Bill immediately complains. 

“It was your decision to move here,” John points out. 

“Well,” Murray shrugs, getting into the passengers seat. “You followed.” 

“Clara’s from here,” John answers, starting up the car. “You working in the E.R. today?” 

“Yeah, all week. I don’t move to the ICU until the 1st,” Murray answers. 

John nods, that will make parking easier, the E.R. and the lab share lots. Its a fifteen minute drive to the hospital, thirty when struggling through morning traffic, but they make the trip in companionable silence. Murray fiddles with the radio, flipping between old rock and alternative. 

As Murray always does, he decides to start up conversation five minutes from the hospital. “You know you should wear your soul metal outside your shirt, then you wouldn’t always look at Harry and Clara like a kicked dog.” He flicks his own soul metal, a clunky golden ring he wears on a chain around his neck. 

“I can’t,” John says, trying to convey that he is done with the conversation. 

Murray blatantly ignores the tone. “Come on, this is America, we don’t keep our metals all secretly tucked away. How are you supposed to find your match if you don’t let anyone see it?”

“I meant what I said,” John takes his gaze from the road long enough to shoot him a glare, “I can’t.”

“Oh,” Murray mumbles, clutching at his own metal. “Afghanistan?” 

The man sounds honestly sorry, and John feels like shit for yelling at his best friend. “No, I didn’t lose it,” he shakes his head.

“Oh christ, you didn’t,” he glances at John’s leg, “you didn’t sell it for the plane ticket, did you?” 

John imagines that would explain to most people why he spent the first day after his surgery screaming and trying to claw his nanite leg from his body. “No, I… its with my mate.”

Murray sputters and looks like he wants to ask John a million questions, but he must read something in his face because he keeps his mouth shut. Instead he just sighs a soft, “Oh.” 

John’s positive that Murray thinks John’s mate is dead, probably imagines they were someone he lost in Afghanistan the first time around. He doesn’t correct him. 

****

“I have a case!” Sherlock shouts, kicking the hotel door open with a bang. 

Greg jolts up from where he had been taking a nap against Mycroft. 

Mycroft only moves enough to roll his eyes. “Honestly, brother,” he sighs. 

Sherlock completely ignores the lack of enthusiasm. “I was just taking a walk,” he says with an innocent smile that means he was probably walking somewhere illegal. “When I came across an older woman. She had a London accent, I placed it immediately, of course.” 

“Of course,” Greg says indulgently, his heart rate still up from the shocking entrance. 

Sherlock shoots him a look, but continues his tale. “Her eyes were red and she had lost recent weight, obvious by the ill fit of her clothing. That was when I spotted a visitor's ticket from the local prison in her purse.”

“Sherlock you can’t go around harassing old ladies, for God’s sake,” Greg sighs, he can only be grateful that Sherlock doesn’t have a black eye from a good purse swatting. 

“I didn’t harass her, I merely asked her a question,” Sherlock scowls, looking offended. “I asked her if her husband was innocent - tan line on the left ring finger, obvious - and you know what she told me?” Sherlock grins, leaning forward. 

Greg gives a hurry up motion with his hands. 

“Fine,” Sherlock huffs, since his audience clearly won’t play along. “She told me he was absolutely guilty and on death row, but was worried that the charges might not stick. I told her I’d find the evidence to ensure the execution.” 

Sherlock looks quite pleased with himself, which makes Greg wonder who exactly he ran into. “What did she say to that?”

Here, Sherlock looks sheepish, averting his gaze to hide the slightest of blushes. “She said I was a… a sweet boy and it would do her heart well to know he wasn’t ever going to get out.” 

Mycroft, who had stayed silent throughout the exchange, burst out laughing. “Truely?” 

“She was very…” Sherlock gestures vaguely, “friendly.” 

“Well,” Greg chuckles, “How are you going to prove his guilt?”

Sherlock rubs his hands together and gives one of his wide smiles that makes him look some how younger and completely insane. “I need a lab.”

***

The lab was relatively easy, a concentration on pathology with a focus on tissue samples. It didn’t take John long to have his collection of samples carefully separated into piles of cancerous, normal, and his wayward liver tissue suffering from cirrhosis. 

“Excellent as always, John,” Dr. Cohen remarked as she walked by. She didn’t quite reach five foot and looked funny weaving through the elevated lab tables. “What kind of cancer did you think this one was?” she asks, holding up a slide that had given him some trouble. 

“It’s osteosarcoma, the lytic lesion gave it away,” John answers. 

“Is it,” Dr. Cohen quirks a brow, “last time I checked we haven’t covered bone tissue just yet.” 

“I’m sure,” John states, holding strong. After having three classes with the professor he is aware of her teaching methods. She is very fair, but has a habit of slipping questions that haven’t been covered in tests and quizzes just to see their response. 

She grins at him, “You are quite correct.” She spins to the class, clapping her hands together to get everyones attention. “Now who can tell me more about Lytic lesions?” A few hands raise and in moments they are in a debate about bone cancers and tumors that somehow trails into leukemia, which of course makes the professor pull out her abnormal morphology blood slides. John loves this class. 

Lunch time comes by all too quickly and Dr. Cohen chases them from the class. Other professors will work them through lunch without a care, but Dr. Cohen always tells them, “I won’t have starving young minds in my class, for goodness sake eat.”

John knows her habit comes from her own time spent in war-torn Israel and likes her all the more for it. He heads up to the ER and drags Murray out for a bite, luckily its a slower day and he can pull his friend from the fray with minimal grumbling. 

“How’s class?” Murray asks as they scoot through the hospital lunch line. 

“Good, it’s Cohen today,” John answers, grabbing a tuna sandwich and side salad. 

Murray shots him a questioning look, the man is terrible with names. 

John chuckles, “The short one with the seven dogs.” 

“Oh, I like her, crazy old bat,” Murray says, grabbing a chocolate pudding and a side of fries. 

“Really?” John glares, looking at the two. 

Murray rolls his eyes, “Fine, fine,” and adds a plate of baby carrots and a packet of ranch. 

John resists the urge to throw his hands up in frustration. After finishing his contract with the army Murray has been the consummate bachelor, and apparently incapable of feeding himself anything that resembles a balanced meal. “Have you talked to Don lately?” John asks, thinking of the army. 

Murray thinks while he hands over his card for the meal. “Last week or so, he’s doing pretty well. You know his leg didn’t bond quite as nicely, but a lot of physical therapy and running 5K’s seems to have gotten it working well. He’s dating some girl from his new job.” 

“New job?” John asks, avoiding the topic of Don’s leg. Don had received the same nanite transfusion that John had, but being older and with the wound in bad shape his new nerves didn’t fire quite right. The leg was still better than a prosthetic, but caused trouble when synapses misfired. 

“Some sort of security consultant for a big corporation, he’s got a bunch of young recruits scurrying about. He says it reminds him of basic, but the food and pay are much better,” Murray laughs.

“It wouldn’t be hard make the food better,” John points out. 

“Oh that’s for sure,” Murray says, taking a bite of his chocolate pudding with relish. 

“I can’t believe everyone is out now,” John murmured, most special forces guys were lifers.

“Well Z would have stayed in forever, but he met his bondmate and it was all downhill from there. I’m not sure who decided to give that man a license for a bar of all things, but he seems happy,” Murray shrugs.

“And Bauza is following after Don, I know,” John says, checking his watch. “Shit, I have to run, a few things to check on in the lab before class starts up again,” John stands and pushes Murray’s ranch covered carrots closer to the man. 

“See you at 1600, then,” Murray waves him off, deliberately ignoring the plate. 

John wasn’t lying, he did need to go back to the lab, just not the lab classes were held in. He plugs in the security code for the level III lab, a laughably simple 911. The heavy wooden door clicks open and he slips inside. 

It’s silent, as it usually is. The level III lab contains the more advanced and, in some cases, experimental equipment owned by the teaching hospital. The advanced level of the equipment, however, meant that very few of the techs knew how to use it and rarely had time to deal with all the protocols needed to get everything running. 

In the back of the lab there are a series of small lockers for the research techs. John finds the one labeled with “Mike Stamford” and unlocks it with the code Mike had given him. In the front of the locker sits a simple metal thermos, completely innocuous. 

It could easily be Mike’s forgotten lunch, but when he unscrews the top, the thermos gives a hiss of released pressure. Cool fog from dry ice escapes the seal as John pulls out the small tube nestled within. 

The tube is clear pyrex glass, sturdy and nonreactive to the shimmering silver liquid within. It looks like mercury, the sluggish fluid moving softly in the container. There is less than 30cc’s within, but even that amount is priceless. John knows it is not mercury and he so grateful to Mike he’s certain he will be buying the older man’s lunch until the day he dies. 

The small amount of silverish liquid is actually melted soul metal, carefully manufactured into nanites. Even the best paid research labs on the planet have difficulties acquiring it, but Mike’s dad works for one of the few companies that produce it. Mike, for such a guileless man, had listened to why John wanted it and did not even hesitate to steal some from his father. 

John carefully puts the tube back in the thermos, he doesn’t have time to work with it at the moment, but he has a free day tomorrow to work in the lab to his heart’s content. He tucks the thermos beneath his arm and walks out of the lab with his head held high, acting like he is exactly where he should be. 

He would have quickly made his way back to the lab if it wasn’t for a shocked voice behind him that makes his heart freeze in his chest. 

****

Six years ago Greg had met his bond mate in the sort of encounter that usually appeared in romcom dramas, and along with Mycroft Holmes came Sherlock. It had been a strange transition to suddenly be responsible for a twelve year old, even more so when that kid is Sherlock. 

Sherlock is rude, abrasive, and has zero filter, but Greg regards him with affection that is part fatherly and part older brother. Those first few years were hard, money was tight and he was still trying to figure out how to deal with a mate nearly a decade younger than him. The hardship, however, is what brought them closer as a family. Which is why he is currently following after Sherlock in the humid Florida streets, because god knows the kid needs looking after, and it’s bound to be interesting. 

“Sherlock are you ever going to tell me where we are going?” Greg asked, jogging to keep up. 

“University of Florida Medical School,” Sherlock answers, barely shooting him a glance. 

“Aren’t there hospitals a little closer?” Greg asks, because he’s almost positive they already passed one. 

“Yes, but a University Hospital is always equipped with a research lab, and this one in particular contains the equipment I need,” Sherlock answers in the tone of voice that would be accompanied by a ‘duh’ if he wasn’t such a posh git. 

“All right then,” Greg shrugs, though he’s curious what in the world Sherlock needs to test for a case that is years old. 

They reach the University after about thirty minutes of walking, Mycroft having need of the rental car for the day. It’s uncomfortably hot and he can feel the itchy slide of sweat down his back. “I hate this state,” Greg complains as they slip through the doors. Luckily the air conditioning is on full blast. The whole building is actually just shy of freezing, it’s glorious. 

Sherlock leads the way like he knows exactly where they are going. Greg guesses he must have memorized to map online or something. They go down to the basement level, which is as creepy as Greg expects considering it contains the morgue as well as the research lab. 

The halls are long and startling white with a floor of pale orange that looks nothing like their bright school colors. The whole place has that oppressive hospital scent that is somewhere between cleaning supplies and sickness. Each door is a light tan wood composite with a code lock on each handle. It is eerily quiet, apparently a not often used region of the hospital. 

Sherlock sniffs out the entrance to the research lab with his usual bloodhound precision. Of course, Greg is sure that even he could have found the door labeled ‘Research Lab’. 

While Sherlock examines the code lock with his collapsable magnifier, Greg keeps an eye down the hall. Apparently they are breaking in, no surprise there. “So what did this guy do anyways? Feed people to alligators? Illicit drug deals?” Greg asks. 

He must have said something useful, because Sherlock shoots up with a surprised exclamation, “Oh!” He presses a series of numbers on the pad and pushes the door open with a triumphant grin. 

Greg follows him inside, barely noting a flash of white darting down the hall. 

***

John had darted quickly behind a pillar when he heard the exclamation. Even older and much deeper, he would recognize Sherlock’s voice. He must be eighteen now, it’s so strange to see the skinny youth from before has now turned into a lanky teen. 

John is only allowed a brief glimpse before Sherlock and an older man slip through the lab door. Heart pounding, John darts down the hall and returns to class. 

He is completely useless for the rest of the day. When the professor calls on him, he can only stare at her blankly until she moves on to someone else. His mind is a whir of conflicting emotions. The thought of seeing Sherlock again, of actually being able to talk to him, is exhilarating. It is also terrifying. He hasn’t contacted his mate for a reason, he could have sent a letter or something if he had really wanted to. 

When he had woken up in the hospital his leg had been an ugly mess of melted soul metal, his shoulder heavily scarred, and his mind just as damaged. Who would want him for a soul mate? Then his sister had found her mate and Bill offered him his home, and he never looked back. 

When class is over, he cannot help but head back to the research lab. He manages to dart behind a pillar just as they are leaving. Whether it is dumb luck or fate, John sees an opportunity and takes it. He follows them. 

***  
Sherlock leads Lestrade and, unknowingly, John on a winding trail through the backwoods of Gainesville to the Natural Area Teaching Laboratory. The area is actually a nature preserve owned by the University, but has nature trails open to the public. 

John watches them curiously, staying a safe distance away so Sherlock and the older man are barely recognizable smudges. He has to be careful in the preserve, he has to stay closer to them then he prefers, and the heavy foliage of the area makes it difficult to travel without crushing leaves and twigs beneath his trainers. 

“I’ll have all the proof Mrs. Hudson needs if I can just find…” Sherlock murmurs, dashing off the trail and into the swampland. 

“Christ!” Lestrade shouts, following after, “Be careful!” 

There is a chain link fence surrounding the more ‘swampy’ area of the park, but Sherlock hops over it without care, completely ignoring the “Warning! Dangerous Animals!” sign. 

“Sherlock, I swear I will lock you in the hotel room until we leave, get back here,” Lestrade threatens, uselessly. He hesitates at the fence before cursing colorfully and jumping over as well. 

To stay hidden, John has to circle around the fence and hop over behind a crop of trees. He crouches beside them, careful to keep from touching the moss draped bark. Murray had told him more than once how many bugs hide in the moss, and knew from class how many diseases were lurking in all those insects. 

Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind. He kneels in the muddy ground and stares at the reeds as if they hold the answer to life. “Mr. Hudson was arrested for drug trafficking and murder, but they only got him for the one murder,”Sherlock explains to Lestrade. 

“You think he did more?” Lestrade asks curiously. 

“Drug trafficking and murder are rampant in the wetlands because the bodies are so easy to hide, but Gainesville is practically in the center of the state. Mr. Hudson’s job was getting the drugs out of Florida and to the rest of the country,” Sherlock continues, shifting over to get a better look a bit of reeds that look exactly like every other bit of reeds. 

“So he found a bit of the wetlands to dump the bodies?” Lestrade asked looking around the swamp. 

“Exactly,” Sherlock grins and shoves his hand into the murky waters. With an exclamation of triumph he pulls a skull from the water. The eye sockets are filled with mud and there is a leach stubbornly attached to the parietal bone, but its definatly a human skull. 

“How did you?” Lestrade gapes.

“What do you think I was doing in the lab? Mrs. Hudson let me look at some of her husband’s old shoes. I analyzed the soil samples I scraped off the bottom and found this location.” Sherlock preens. 

John has to cover his mouth to stop from bursting out laughing. Apparently Sherlock hasn’t much changed from when he was twelve. He’s still blindingly clever. It is only because John is looking away from Sherlock in his attempt not to laugh that he sees the shape moving in the water. “Sherlock, look out!” John shouts jumping from behind the tree. 

Sherlock is stunned, looking up at his lost mate with wide-eyed wonder, but Lestrade’s reflexes are police honed and he shoves them both out of the water and onto dryer land. 

The alligator, the shape John had spotted, explodes out of the water with an angry hiss. Sherlock and Lestrade are a fallen tangle of limbs, and alligators can be as amazingly fast out of the water as they are in it. 

John doesn’t hesitate, he runs along the land on the side of the water and kicks the twelve foot reptile in the rump. 

It turns on him, massive mouth open to reveal a veritable army of teeth. “Shit!” John yelps, and scrambles over the chainlink fence to his left. Luckily, Lestrade and Sherlock are close behind. 

“John,” Sherlock whispers, sounding so young. 

“Come on, I don’t know if that will stop it if it’s mad enough,” John says, grabbing Sherlock’s wrist, ignoring the skull clenched in his fingers, and tugs him back to the main path. 

****

John looks somehow very different and exactly the same. Sherlock takes in everything he can as he is tugged along. He looks like a man now, less like the scruffy boy from London. His hair is still kept military short, but the sun had bleached it an array of blond, from platinum to honey. He is wearing dark green scrubs, and there is a hint of a lab coat poking from the old backpack slung over his shoulders- medical student. His gait is a little strange - old war wound. He is tan all over from the Florida sun, but bags under his eyes shows trouble sleeping - probably a night owl. 

“John,” Sherlock says, louder this time. When John doesn’t stop, he tugs his wrist out of John’s grip, and immediately misses the contact. “Saw us at the University I imagine,” he comments, wishing he had a coat to wrap himself in, something to help hide. 

John’s shoulders are hunched protectively and he has flush of embarrassment across his cheeks. “Yeah.” 

“You know this guy?” Lestrade asks, though its obvious Sherlock does, the real question is how. 

“Yes, I do,” Sherlock tugs his necklace out from his shirt, revealing a set of soul rings. 

Lestrade resists the urge to gasp. He knows that Sherlock keeps his metal hidden on a necklace just like Mycroft used to. Its common practice. He has also, never seen Sherlock’s metal, never thought to ask about it. 

“You kept it,” John murmurs, sounding surprised but pleased. 

“Of course I did!” Sherlock snaps, pulling the cord over his head. “Perhaps it is time you keep it,” he tosses the whole thing at John. 

John catches it instinctively, looking stunned by the rings nestled in his palm. They fit perfectly together, looking mostly like John remembers them, but now his ring is half silver and gold and so is Sherlock’s, the pair having shared a bit of themselves to show they are bonded. 

Sherlock is fuming. He can feel the rage shaking his frame and clogging his throat. “I thought you were dead!” he snarls. Because he had, he thought John had either died in Afghanistan or had been captured, anything to explain why he had never returned to London, and here he finds him in America of all places, working on a medical degree. 

“Come on,” Sherlock snaps, grabbing Greg’s arm and dragging him back to the main road. He needs to leave because he’s furious, but also to prevent him from asking why.

***  
Murray stares at his watch and starts to worry. It only just turned 1600, but John has a tendency to be ten minutes early to everything, a rather military habit for a man that never actually joined.

He leans against the car and scans the parking lot. It’s packed like usual, but he can just see John in the distance, he’s not coming from his usual direction. Murray sighs and feels his shoulders relax. 

John walks up to him with a slow sort of trudge. 

“Rough day?” Murray asks. John seems to be in a daze, looking down at something in his hands with a glazed sort of expression. Murray leans over and finds two soul metals nestled in his palm, they’re a matched set. 

“John?” Murray prompts. 

“Sherlock is in Florida,” John answers flatly, not looking up from his palm. 

That tells Murray absolutely nothing, but he takes a wild stab in the dark, “Your soul mate?” 

“Yeah.”

“Well shit,” Murray mutters, because clearly there is a story there. 

***

Greg brewed his fifth cup of tea in so many hours and stared at the closed bedroom door. Sherlock had locked himself away as soon as they had arrived and no amount of coaxing has managed to draw the teen from the room. 

He sighs, watching the water grow darker with each swirl of the tea bag. Greg had never broached the topic of soulmates with Sherlock. Its a private affair at the best of times and Sherlock is as guarded as his brother, and in some ways more so. He certainly hadn’t realized that Sherlock had bonded, and judging by the argument between the two men it had been some time ago. 

“What has my brother done now?” 

Greg looks up, surprised to find Mycroft standing in the doorway. “Did you know Sherlock was bonded?” he asks, in lieu of explanation. 

Mycroft’s eyes barely widen, but his surprise is obvious. “I had suspected, but not confirmed.” His gaze darts quickly over Greg’s appearance, “You met his bond mate?”

“Sort of, Sherlock managed to get Mr. Hudson a guaranteed trip to the chair, but in the process he was almost eaten by an alligator and this guy comes out of no where and saves him. They yelled at each other a bit and Sherlock tossed his bonded soul metal at the man and marched off. I haven’t managed to get him out of his room since. Greg is still trying to assimilate everything that had happened.

Whatever Mycroft might have had to say to that is interrupted by someone pounding at the hotel door. 

Greg shoots Mycroft a curious look, but he shakes his head; not expecting anyone then. He opens the door to find the young man from before, John, and an older man he doesn’t recognize. 

“Is Sherlock here?” John asks, face flushed with either embarrassment or heat exhaustion. 

“I don’t know if…” Greg trails off because the door to Sherlock’s room is opening. He peers out cautiously, but straightens when he spots John. 

“I thought I made myself clear before,” Sherlock practically snarls. 

“I know,” John says, “but I owe you an explanation, and I hope you will listen. “ 

Sherlock sighs, but opens up his door wider. “Come on then.” John follows Sherlock into the room, the door slamming shut behind them. 

“Well then,” the other man offers a wry grin to Mycroft and Greg as he steps into the room, “this should be interesting.”

Greg silently agrees. 

***

Murray had bullied most of the story out of John, about how he first met Sherlock, the Reichenbach Fall, and how he had been such a coward. And Murray, being a good friend, had completely ignored John’s protests and had dragged him to the hotel. Murray had figured out where Sherlock was staying through a series of phone calls and favors that may or may not have been legal. 

Now John was standing in Sherlock’s room and hadn’t the faintest clue where to begin. Being an idiot, he started with, “I found my sister.” 

Sherlock figits like he can’t help himself. “Is she…” he pauses looking hesitant, “Okay?”

“Yesh,” John chuckles hollowly, “ found her mate while I was in hospital.” 

“You were injured?” Sherlock asks, curious. He flicks his eyes over John’s form with the same precision he had wielded as a child. “The leg,” he states, sounding certain. 

“Yeah,” John gulps, and lifts his trouser leg. Above his sock, his leg is starling silver, the soul metal never fades or tarnishes, the surface looking as brilliant now as it had the day he got it. 

Sherlock makes a curious noise and kneels down to look, his fingers a hair’s breath from touching. “Car accident, IED,” he mutters. 

“I met with some Army blokes in the mountains and they helped me out, but we got into a mess trying to get out of the country. I don’t remember most of it, I woke up in the hospital. Apparently I was a good candidate for an experimental procedure.” John is surprised to find no bitterness in his voice as there would have been a year ago. While the idea of what, exactly, his leg is sometimes makes him sick, he is still glad to have it. 

“You stayed here because of your sister, and this, why?” Sherlock asks, standing. 

“It isn’t a guarantee you know. Just because two people are born with the same...trinket when they are born doesn’t guarantee eternal happiness. Honestly, we hardly know each other and I’m a mess, seriously. This leg, my scars, I have nightmares that leave me screaming. Why would you want that? Why would anyone?” John could feel his heart clench, he did not want to be saying these things. There was a reason why he had only managed to talk to a therapist once, but he figured if anyone deserved the truth it would be the person that was supposed to be his other half, guarantee or not. 

Sherlock glares. “Don’t you think that should be my decision to make? Instead of hiding in America like a coward,” he snaps. 

John scratches the back of his neck, looking away, he feels _flayed_. “Probably, I…” 

Sherlock cuts him off. “Tomorrow, you are having coffee with me. Downstairs there is a local cafe, their tea is horrendous but they make a passable coffee.” 

“What?” John asks, because surely he missed something. 

“Coffee. Tomorrow. Noon,” Sherlock tells him sharply. “I will make my decision.” 

“You don’t really strike me as the out for coffee sort,” John comments, because clearly Sherlock has decided to flip this conversation on its head. 

“I’m not, but I have a skull I need to clean and I plan on doing that tomorrow evening,” Sherlock sniffs, looking oddly prim. 

John remembers the skull that had been pulled from the swamp. He imagines keeping the skull is illegal, and cleaning it may actually be considered a destruction of evidence. Instead of mentioning any of that he offers, “I have some lab space at the hospital. We could get a coffee on the way and you could use some of the bleaching equipment there.”

Sherlock gives a tentative smile, looking painfully young. “Acceptable,” he says, trying to suppress his grin and failing. 

Feeling lighter than he has in years, John tugs the rings from around his neck. He opens the chain and offers his ring to Sherlock. “Perhaps we can try this again, if you’ll let me.”

Sherlock takes the ring and slips it on his right ring finger. He stares at it for a moment, running his thumb over the twisting metal. When he meets John’s gaze, his look is challenging. “Bagram or Kandahar?”

John slips the other ring on, feeling the warmth of it against his skin. “Kandahar, but how could you know that?” he asks and grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long, school started up again. I know some people are going to be made about this ending, but you have to remember that this is a oneshot, and for once I wanted an ending that left them with promise but not a guaranteed happy ever after. 
> 
> Also, I'm afraid to admit I cheated on the Sherlock fandom. I found some new OTP and have been reading through them en masse. If I suddenly start writing Avengers vic, it was an accident I swear. Though Hannibal fandom is speaking to me, even if I already dabbled in it. It so funny how each fandom has troupes that are particular to it and then there are the troupes that seem to invade every fandom.


End file.
